ELIZA    HALL    SHALLENBERGER. 


'IP HE  memories  contained  in  these 
pages  would  never  have  been 
reprinted  for  the  eyes  of  the  general 
public ;  but  to  those  who  knew  and 
loved  the  woman  who  wrote  them,  to 
all  those  who  think  of  Stark  county 
as  their  motherland  and  of  her  pio- 
neers as  their  first  and  firmest  friends, 
this  little  book  will  have  a  deep  and 
lasting  interest.  X  X  X  X  X  X 


These  verses  and  letters  were  preserved  by  their  author  in  an  old  scrap- 
book,  dating  from  the  year  1851.  The  last  time  her  dim  eyes  looked  upon 
its  precious  pages  she  wrote  this  inscription  on  its  fly-leaf: 


"  I  have  long  regretted  I  did  not  observe 
more  order  and  care  in  preserving  these,  to 
me,  precious  memorials  of  the  years  that 
are  gone.  Still,  when  I  remember  the  count- 
less cares  with  which  those  days  were 
crowded,  the  wonder  is  that  I  ever  found 
time  to  preserve  them  at  all;  or  to  commit 
so  many  of  my  own  thoughts  to  the  written 
page.  These  letters,  have  little,  if  any, 
value  to  the  general  public,  but  may  be  of 
interest  to  my  immediate  descendants. 
Therefore,  I  beseech  whoever  may  turn 
these  pages  after  I  am  gone,  to  handle  the 
old  volume  carefully  in  memory  of  one 
who  loved  it  well." 


I  sometimes  sit  beneath  a  tree 

And  read  my  early  songs; 
Though  naught  they  may  to  others  be, 

Each  humble  line  prolongs 
A  tone  that  might  have  passed  away 
But  for  that  scarce  remembered  lay. 

II. 

I  keep  them  like  a  lock  or  leaf 
That  some  dear  girl  has  given — 

Frail  record,  of  an  hour  as  brief 
As  sunset  clouds  in  heaven; 

But  spreading  purple  twilight  still 

High  over  memory's  shadowed  hill. 

III. 
They  lie  upon  my  pathway  bleak — 

Those  flowers  that  once  ran  wild — 
As  on  a  father's  careworn  cheek, 

The  ringlets  of  his  child; 
The  golden  mingling  with  the  gray, 
And  stealing  half  its  snows  away. 


IV. 

And  therefore  love  I  such  as  smile 

On  these  neglected  songs, 
Nor  deem  that  flattery's  needless  wile 

My  opening  bosom  wrongs. 
For  who  would  trample  at  my  side 
A  few  pale  buds,  my  garden's  pride  ? 

V. 
It  may  be  that  my  scanty  ore 

Long  years  have  washed  away, 
And  where  were  golden  sands  before 

Is  naught  but  common  clay. 
Still,  something  sparkles  in  the  sun 
For  memory  to  look  back  upon. 

VI. 
And  when  my  name  no  more  is  heard 

My  lyre  no  more  is  known 
Still,  let  me,  like  a  winter  bird, 

In  silence  and  alone, 
Fold  over  them  the  weary  wing, 
Once  flashing  through  the  dews  of  spring 

O  W. 


DAY  DREAMS. 


Say,  gentle  reader,  didst  thou  ever  lean 
O'er  latticed  bolcony,  by  starlight's  gleam  ? 
Or,  just  before  that  hour,  when  day's  last  beam 
Girdles  the  western  sky  with  crimson  stream  ? 


In  summer  time,  when  flowers  their  fragrance  throw 
Upon  the  ambient  air ;  when  music's  flow 
Mellowed  by  distance,  falls  upon  the  ear, 
As  strains  from  heavenly  lyres,  reechoed  here. 

And  gently  loosing  all  the  cords  that  bind 
To  time  and  place,  the  longings  of  the  mind ; 
Bade  the  free  spirit  plume  itself  for  flight, 
And  seek  in  Fancy's  realm  a  rare  delight  ? 

Thus  have  I  musing  stood,  and  dreamed  of  bliss, 
Till  Fancy  seemed  Reality  to  kiss ; 
As  in  a  sweet  embrace  they  were  entwined, 
And  I,  to  sever  them,  was  not  inclined. 

Thus  have  I  stood  upon  the  vessel's  prow 
And  felt  the  freshening  sea-breeze  fan  my  brow; 
Seen  moonlight  dance  upon  the  crested  wave, 
Lighting,  with  beauty's  spell,  the  seaman's  grave. 

Seen  gorgeous  suns  set  over  azure  fields, 
Like  golden  blazonry  on  warrior's  shields, 
Where  their  high  carnival,  the  winds  hold  free 
For  those  who  venture  on  the  deep,  deep  sea. 

Seen  distant  lands  enchanted  rise  to  view 

Such  as  a  Stoic's  fancy  never  knew; 

Warm,  sunny  lands,  where  love  and  wealth  and  fame 

A  bright  kaleidiscope  of  beauty  frame. 

Or,  in  far  other  mood,  I've  scaled  the  height 
Of  the  dark  mountain's  frowning  precipice ; 
Where  the  wild  chamois  bounds  in  gladness  free, 
A  finish  meet  for  nature's  tapestry. 


Where  the  dark  storm-cloud  bursts  o'er  Jura's  head, 
The  fearful  avalanche  in  anger  sped. 
Adown  the  beetling  cliffs,  huge  masses  rolled, 
Not  sparing  shepherd's  cot,  nor  herdsman's  fold. 

Then  have  I  walked  o'er  monumental  dust, 
Where  every  sod  can  claim  some  sacred  trust ; 
Each  stone  a  record  time  has  failed  to  hide, 
Saying  here  sages  lived,  or  heroes  died. 

Midst  Petra's  rock-built  tombs  can  Fancy  dwell, 
And  from  their  mysteries  draw  forth  a  spell 
Bringing  again  the  infancy  of  Time, 
When  scarcely  finished  seemed  creation  s  ctiime. 

From  Pompeii,  buried  by  fair  Naples'  bay, 
To  where  the  Roman  marked  the  Appian  way, 
That  once  resounded  to  the  warrior's  tread, 
Now  famous  but  for  trophies  of  the  dead; 

Can  Fancy,  adding  link  to  link  of  thought, 

Forge  chains  of  thrilling  pictures,  strangely  wrought, 

Binding  the  present  to  the  mighty  past; 

Each  link  a  history  or  a  memory  vast  ? 

Ye  cruel  fates  that  disappoint  us  here, 
To  ashes  turn  the  fruit  of  toil-spent  years ! 
Rob  us  of  joys  just  when  we  think  they  're  ours, 
And  to  destruction  doom  our  air-built  towers ! 

Take  from  me  every  hope  of  wealth  or  fame, 
All  earthly  honors  from  my  humble  name, 
But  spare  my  simple  life  bright  Fancy's  gleams ! 
Grant  to  me  still  the  magic  of  my  dreams ! 


LETTER  TO  OLD  SETTLERS'  ASSOCIATION. 

Dated  at  Imperial,  Neb.,  August  18,  1891. 


To  the  Old  Settlers  of  Stark  County,  Illinois,  in  their  Annual  Meeting  Assembled —  To 
one  and  all  a  kindly  greeting:  A  few  days  since  I  received  a  card  of  invitation  to  be 
present  at  your  Fourteenth  Annual  Reunion.  It  goes  without  saying  that  I  should  like  to 
be  there.  Whoever  had  a  home  within  the  limits  of  "Molly  Stark"  but  holds  its 
memory  dear,  and  would  gladly  return,  if  circumstances  permitted,  on  these  anniversary 
occasions,  to  clasp  again  once  familiar  hands,  to  gaze  into  once  familiar  faces,  and  renew 
the  friendships  of  former  years  ? 

It  is  said  that  the  men  of  the  Swiss  cantons,  who  have  ever  ranked  among  the 
bravest  soldiers  of  Europe  when  defending  the  fastnesses  of  their  native  hills,  make  but 
poor  campaigners  in  foreign  lands,  so  depressed  are  they  by  homesickness;  and  history 
records  that  a  whole  regiment  of  Swiss  has  been  demoralized,  rendered  incapable  of 
action,  by  the  playing  of  an  Alpine  air — their  home  music. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  our  grand  little  county  has  a  similar  hold  upon  the 
hearts  of  her  absent  children.  The  letters  from  these  wanderers,  as  they  wend  their  way 

back  to  your  meetings  from  year  to  year, 
bear  witness  to  this  attachment.  Their 
writers  may  have  wandered  in  many  lands, 
called  many  places  home  as  the  years 
have  glided  by,  but  true  as  the  needle  to 
the  pole,  their  hearts  still  turn  to  that  first 
home,  humble  though  it  may  have  been, 
within  the  confines  of  Stark  county,  Ill- 
inois. These  ties,  so  subtle,  tender,  and 
strong,  are  hard  to  define.  We  do  not  care 
to  analyze  them  too  minutely.  Enough 
for  us  that  they  exist,  and  we  would  not 
sever  them  if  we  could.  Still,  I  may  ven- 
ture to  suggest,  it  is  not  altogether  in  the  recollection  of  fertile  fields,  of  shady  groves  or 
rippling  streams  that  constitutes  the  bond — the  charm  of  memory — but  that  strange 
thing  we  call  association  of  ideas.  The  mingled  fragrance  of  youth  and  love  has  cast  a 
glamour  over  the  past  and  made  it  sacred.  Such  flowers  bloom  but  once  along  life's 
pathway,  and  for  us — "us  old  folks" — they  blossomed  and  faded  long  ago.  There  is 
a  sunshine  that  falls  only  on  life's  morning;  on  us  it  can  never  fall  again;  but  far  out 
into  the  twilight  or  the  darkness  we  may  carry  the  memory  of  the  flowers  and  the  shine. 
But  enough  of  rhapsody.  I  intended  this  paper  should  be  one  of  reminiscence. 
I  often  think  I  must  be  very  old,  so  clearly  does  my  mind  recall  the  beginning  of 
things  in  what  we  now  recognize  as  Stark  county.  I  remember  when  it  was  "set  off" 
from  old  Putnam;  also  the  first  election  within  its  bounds.  I  watched  with  interest  the 
building  of  the  first  court  house,  by  Deacon  Mott,  and  attended  school  in  that  building, 
I  think,  during  the  winter  of  1842-43,  but  I  am  always  ready  to  be  corrected  on  dates. 
Miss  Susan  Gill  was  the  teacher,  (the  same  lady  who  afterwards  became  Mrs.  Stephen 
Eastman,)  and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  hers  was  the  first  grave  in  the  present  cemetery. 

Not  long  since  I  sorrowfully  read  in  the  papers  of  the  demise  of  Mr.  William  Bus- 
well,  of  Neponset,  and  Doctor  Boardman,  of  Elmira.  The  former  was  a  playmate  of  my 
childhood.  My  father's  family  and  that  of  Mr.  James  Buswell  played  together  as  children 


in  the  woods  of  Osceola,  before  Toulon  existed  even  on  paper.  And  I  remember  the 
coming  of  Doctor  Boardman  to  Elmira  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday.  I  can  recall  his 
massive  face  and  calm  far-seeing  eyes,  as  I  have  seen  him  stand  by  the  bedside  of  the 
sick,  as  if  searching  out  the  hidden  secrets  of  disease.  I  remember,  too,  that  face  as  it 
bent  above  my  father's  coffin  and  took  a  long  farewell.  I  could  not  stand  by  his  grave, 
but  I  wish,  metaphorically,  to  lay  a  flower  upon  it,  and  so  bid  playmate  and  friend  a  last 
good-by. 

But  to  return  more  directly  to  the  line  of  reminiscence.  I  remember,  though  a  child 
at  the  time,  when  your  venerable  president  first  brought  his  young  wife  to  make  a  home 
among  western  wilds.  I  think  this  must  have  been  in  the  fall  of  1838,  but  he  can  tell 
you.  A  few  years  later  I  saw  them  arrive  in  Toulon  and  lay  the  foundation  of  a  home 
which  for  forty  years  or  more  was  ever  a  center  of  genial  social  influences,  always 
including  a  generous  hospitality.  Ah,  what  faces  I  have  seen,  what  voices  heard  within 
those  walls!  And,  in  imagination,  they  are  around  me  as  I  write.  Eminent  jurists, 
soldiers,  statesmen,  "Fair  women  and  brave  men."  But  I  must  not  particularize  or  I 
shall  write  another  history  of  Stark  county,  which  I  am  sure  is  not  desirable.  But,  while 
not  wishing  to  disparage  the  present,  perhaps  an  old  woman  may  be  pardoned  for 
thinking  that  was  Toulon's  Golden  Age. 

But  my  letter  is  growing  out  of  all  reasonable  limits.  I  fear  I  may  weary  even  old 
settlers,  so  shall  close  somewhat  abruptly,  leaving  much  unsaid  that  I  should  like  to  say. 
For  when  I  give  the  reins  to  memory,  the  Toulon  of  the  past  is  ever  the  Mecca  towards 
which  my  thoughts  turn.  Her  people,  her  churches,  her  schools,  her  literary  societies, 
made  all  that  was  best  in  my  life,  and  when  that  life's  work  is  done,  if  never  before,  I 
hope  to  return  to  the  once  familiar  scenes,  and  take  my  last  long  sleep  beneath  the  sod 
hallowed  by  the  ashes  of  my  kindred,  and  among  the  friends  of  my  youthful  days. 

E.  H.  S. 


THE  SEA  BIRD. 


Written  on  board  the  steamer  Samaria,  April  zad,  1869. 


Beautiful  bird  of  this  far  off  sea  ! 
Where  may  thy  home  and  thy  loved  ones  be  ? 
Are  they  with  mine  in  yon  western  land  ? 
By  northern  iceberg  ?  or  southern  strand  ? 


Far,  far  away  they  must  surely  be, 

For  home  there  is  none  on  this  pitiless  sea ; 

No  shelter  for  home  or  nestlings  here. 

Nor  protection  for  aught  the  heart  holds  dear. 


This  morning  I  see  thee  dip  thy  wing, 
And  fresh  from  the  wave  into  ether  spring. 
But  my  eye  may  not  follow  thy  midday  flight, 
Nor  see  where  thy  pinions  are  folded  tonight. 


Ah,  me!  I  must  wearily  plod  along. 

No  wings  for  soaring,  no  voice  for  song, 

And  a  lengthening  ocean's  billows  sweep 

Twixt  me  and  the  home  where  my  loved  one  sleep 


MY  TWO  CUPBOARDS. 

Imperial,  Neb.,  Dec.  II,  1893. 

1CCORDING  to  promise,  I  "Send  you  something  for  your  Holiday  Number." 
The  subject  may  seem  a  trivial  one  to  many  of  your  readers;  but  greater 
people  have  written  of  smaller  things.     Burns  "  Could  mourn  the  severed 
daisy,  or  the  mousie's  ruined  nest,"  and  Eliza  Cook  sang  of  "An  old 
armchair" — and  we  do  not  desire  to  "chide"  her  for  so  doing. 

Then,  my  two  old  cupboards  are  both  Stark  county  pioneers,  so  their  history 
may  possess  a  mite  of  interest  "  For  the  old  folks,"  and  it  is  that  class  I  am  most 
anxious  to  entertain.  The  first  I  shall  mention  was  made  by  Henry  White,  who, 
I  think,  was  one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  first  carpenter  to  arrive  at  Osceola  Grove, 
where  we  then  lived.  I  still  remember  the  pleasure  expressed  by  my  mother  on  its 
arrival  at  our  cabin  home,  which  must  have  been  in  1838  or  '39. 

It  was  really  the  first  piece  of  furniture  she  had  possessed  since  crossing  the 
sea.  Prior  to  this,  what  few  conveniences  we  had  for  our  table,  were  arranged  on 
rude  shelves  supported  by  wooden  pins  driven  into  the  logs  that  formed  the  walls 
of  our  cabin. 

This  reminds  me  that  the  generation  now  growing  up  and  occupying,  most  of  them, 
good,  modern  homes,  know  but  little  of  the  log  cabin  of  the  pioneer,  or  of  the  primitive 
fashion  in  which  their  grand  parents  lived  in  the  early  days  of  Illinois.  My  uncle,  Wil- 
liam Hall,  who  has  long  been  sleeping  "The  sleep  of  the  just"  in  the  cemetery  at 
Osceola,  as  part  of  his  outfit  for  entering  a  new  world,  brought  with  him  a  chest  of  car- 
penter's tools,  and  though  born  and  bred  a  farmer,  he  soon  acqired  some  skill  in  using 
them. 

Thus,  he  constructed  for  us  (by  us  I  mean  my  father's  family)  a  rude  table  and  some 
benches  and  stools  to  serve  as  seats.  This  table  was  made  of  two  broad  boards  about 
six  feet  long,  which  bad  been  sawed  by  hand  in  a  "saw-pit."  The  legs  formed  a  letter  X 
at  either  end.  I  know  now  that  he  brought  this  model  in  his  mind  from  his  English 
home;  for  in  reading  English  history  I  find  our  Saxon  ancestors  gathered  their  house- 
holds around  just  such  "boards,"  and  centuries  later,  in  baronial  halls,  lords  and  ladies 
feasted  "Above  the  salt,"  and  their  more  humble  retainers  below  it,  from  long  tables  con- 
structed on  the  same  simple  plan.  So  much  for  the  origin  of  our  table.  But  I  must 
return  to  my  cupboard. 

It  is  made  of  walnut  boards  which,  I  believe,  were  sawed  from  native  trees  at  the  old 
W^thersfield  sawmill,  but  of  this  I  am  not  quite  certain.  However,  it  is  so  well  put  together 
that  unless  destroyed  by  fire  it  may  descend  to  generations  yet  unborn.  I  think  its 
maker  has  passed  to  his  reward.  I  noticed  an  account  of  his  death  in  The  Sentinel  some 
time  since.  Where  he  lived  his  last  days  I  know  not,  but  his  first  home  in  Illinois  was 
in,  or  near  Osceola  Grove.  Later  he  built  a  house  on  the  top  of  the  hill  going  up  from 
Spoon  river  bridge,  on  the  road  from  Osceola  to  Toulon.  Old  settlers  will  remember 
this,  though  the  place  soon  passed  into  other  hands,  a  family  by  the  name  of  Craig,  buy- 
ing it,  I  believe.  But  the  cupboard  remained  one  of  our  household  comforts.  It  went 
with  us  to  Toulon  in  1842,  and  in  1849  was  given  to  me  as  part  of  my  marriage  portion. 

Then  began  my  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  it.  I  visited  it  many  times  daily, 
for  thirty  years — how  many,  let  housekeepers  guess.  And  often  in  the  dead  hours  of 
night,  when  roused  from  sleep  by  the  terrifying  sound  of  croup,  have  I  rushed  to  its 


doors;  for  on  the  top  shelf  out  of  the  reach  of  little  hands  stood  my  array  of  medicines, 
most  of  them  carefully  labeled  in  my  dear  father's  handwriting,  and  in  the  Latin  formula 
he  always  used.  And  I  may  as  well  confess  all  the  Latin  I  ever  knew  was  learned  from 
my  father's  bottles.  There  was  a  time  when  "Aqua  vitae,"  "Aqua  ammon,"  "Pulv  rhei," 
and  the  like,  were  as  familiar  as  household  words;  but  Wine  of  Ipecac  in  good  plain 
English,  was  usually  the  object  of  my  search  in  those  midnight  visits  to  my  shelf  of 
medicines.  All  other  things  seemed  of  small  importance  just  then. 

This  old  cupboard  and  I 'have  been  parted  many  years.  It  remained  in  the  old 
brown  house  on  the  corner;  I  wandered  toward  the  setting  sun.  Is  it  any  wonder,  that 
as  I  am  growing  old  far  from  the  scenes  of  my  youth,  my  mind  should  dwell  more  and 
more  upon  the  past,  and  that  I  longed  for  the  presence  of  this  old  friend,  dumb  and 
inanimate  though  it  may  be,  within  my  doors  ? 

My  daughter  kindly  started  it  westward  some  time  since,  and  now  it  is  here,  and 
with  it  a  bit  of  my  young  life  seems  to  have  come  back  to  me,  which,  perhaps,  has 
inspired  this  tale. 

It  is  not  valuable  as  men  reckon  values,  or  beautiful,  or  stylish,  but  around  it  such 
priceless  memories  cling.  I  would  not  exchange  it  for  a  modern  sideboard  though  that 
were  decorated  with  mirrors  and  loaded  with  silver. 

But  I  must  not  forget  cupboard  No.  2.  No.  i  outranks  it  as  to  age,  and  therefore 
was  entitled  to  a  first  notice.  No.  2  was  a  book  cupboard,  or  bookcase,  as  we  always 
called  it,  and  was  the  first  one  of  its  kind  to  enter  my  married  home.  It  was  made  by 
Mr.  Joseph  Walthers  soon  after  his  arrival  at  Toulon,  I  think  in  1851  or  '52.  But  I 
always  hold  myself  in  readiness  to  be  corrected  on  dates,  as  my  memory  does  not  retain 
them  as  it  does  events.  I  read  in  a  recent  number  of  The  Sentinel  that  this  gentleman 
had  retired  from  business.  And  I  will  venture  to  say,  he  will  never  have  a  successor, 
or  at  least  in  some  respects.  Such  work  as  he  did  is  no  longer  called  for.  The  cheap, 
machine-made  furniture  of  the  city  factories  has  driven  it  from  the  market.  So,  as  the 
years  roll  by,  my  precious  bookcase  will  become  more  and  more  valuable  as  a  relic  of 
the  past;  a  specimen  of  the  workmanship  of  long  ago.  This,  too,  is  of  solid  walnut,  but 
veneered  with  mahogany.  People  often  speak  sneeringly  of  "veneering,"  whether  used 
in  its  literal  or  figurative  sense.  And  well  they  may.  But  this  is  not  that  kind  of  veneer- 
ing. It  does  not  wear  off. 

This  bookcase  went  with  me  and  my  boys  when  we  took  possession  of  our  Fulton 
county  farm  in  1880,  and  made  the  journey  of  fifty  miles  without  receiving  a  scratch. 
When  we  emigrated  to  Nebraska  it  was  shipped  'to  Bradshaw,  in  this  state,  and  being 
carelessly  unloaded  there,  suffered,  what  the  doctors  would  call  a  "  Compound  fracture  of 
the  right  leg,"  and  was  left  in  this  condition,  apparently  without  a  friend,  until  I  could 
build  a  house  wherein  I  could  care  for  it  again  and  have  its  injuries  treated.  Then  it 
was  reshipped  to  Grant,  Neb.,  at  that  time  our  nearest  railroad  station,  and  afterwards 
loaded  on  a  wagon  and  hauled  thirty  miles  to  Imperial.  Yet,  there  is  not  a  particle  of 
veneering  gone  save  in  a  few  spots  where  it  had  been  actually  ground  through  by  con- 
tact with  some  hard  substance  during  its  long  journeys.  Am  I  mistaken  in  saying  we 
do  not  have  such  work  done  nowadays?  There  is  another  rather  singular  circumstance 
regarding  this  bookcase  I  will  mention.  It  has  glass  doors  to  the  upper  part,  and  stood 
in  our  sitting-room  at  Toulon  for  nearly  thirty  years,  when  six  boys  and  two  girls  passed 
the  restless  season  of  childhood  and  youth,  and  yet  never  was  a  glass  broken.  Was  this 
because  the  glass  was  of  extra  quality,  or  the  children?  I  leave  others  to  decide.  Eager 
were  the  youthful  hands,  and  bright  the  beaming  eyes,  that  used  to  rummage  the  broad 
lower  shelves  in  the  old  Toulon  home,  for  there  lay  "Abbott's  Life  of  Napoleon."  "Los- 


sing's  Field  Book  of  the  Revolution,"  bound  volumes  of  "Harper's  Magazine,"  and 
other  prime  favorites  of  the  children,  which  they  read  and  reread  until  their  contents 
became  things  of  memory.  And  I  often  think  these  lives  so  dear  to  me,  perhaps  took 
their  tone  or  bent  from  the  contents  of  these  old  shelves  in  that  childhood  home. 

I  have  told  this  tale  as  it  lives  in  my  mind,  and  by  your  leave,  Mr.  Editor,  I  confide 
it  to  the  keeping  of  the  faithful  types,  hoping  it  may  beguile  an  hour  for  some  wayworn 
pilgrim  these  Christmas  times,  and  perhaps  when  my  pen  and  lips  have  alike  ceased  to 
move,  it  may  survive  and  happily  awake  a  deeper  interest  among  my  descendants  in 
these  treasured  heirlooms,  these  relics  of  a  day  gone  by.  E.  H.  S. 


LINES 

Written  on  the   tenth   anniversary  of  the  marriage  of  my  sister,  Louisa,  who  was  the 

first  child  born  in  the  town  of  Toulon. 


My  mind  flies  back,  thro'  the  changeful  years, 

To  a  cabin  rude  and  wild, 
Where,  in  a  village  we  might  name, 

Was  born  the  first  white  child. 


Fondly  we  watched  the  budding  life, 
Earth's  sweetest  mystery  yet. 

No  eyes  so  blue,  no  face  so  fair 
As  graced  our  household  pet. 


No  splendors  greeted  her  approach, 
But  the  cabin  home  was  glad ; 

Not  titled  heir  to  marble  halls — 
A  heartier  welcome  had. 


'T  was  mine  to  shape  the  snowy  robe, 

To  lace  the  tiny  shoe, 
And  on  the  pearly  shoulders  tie 

The  "True  Love-Knot"  of  blue. 


And  as  her  tottering  feet  grew  strong, 
I  taught  her  childhood's  lore  ; 

How  the  shy  bluebird  built  her  nest, 
The  squirrel  hid  his  store. 


Where  the  wild  roses  wooed  the  sun, 
The  bellflower  wept  the  dew, 

Where  buttercups  and  violets  lived, 
Ur  nuts  and  berries  grew. 


And  then  it  chanced,  as  oft  before, 

In  high  or  lowly  home, 
A  stranger  through  its  portals  passed, 
And  went  not  thence  alone. 


Thus  sped  the  years  as  in  a  dream, 

By  simple  joys  beguiled, 
Till  woman's  loftier  spirit  touched 

The  eyelids  of  the  child. 


Thus  from  our  father's  fireside  group 

Our  sister  passed  away; 
Another's  hearth  and  heart  to  cheer 

Ten  years  ago  today. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RETURN. 


Written  impromptu  upon  returning  fromCambridge  in  1860. 


Eight  little  feet  came  swiftly 

A  happy  mother  to  greet ; 
Eight  little  eyes  grew  brighter 

The  smile  of  welcome  to  meet. 

Soon  eight  little  hands  had  clasped  her 

In  many  a  fond  embrace, 
And  the  smallest  clung  the  closest 

To  their  own  loved  resting  place. 


And  four  little  hearts  grew  lighter 
As  they  clustered  round  the  hearth ; 

And  four  little  tongues  flew  faster 
In  tones  of  childish  mirth. 

Away  with  ambitious  scheming! 

Though  it  compass  a  sceptre  and  throne. 
Such  hours  it  can  never  furnish ; 

Such  hours  are  a  mother's  own. 


MY  IDEAL  HOME. 


lY    IDEAL  home  is  not  necessarily  adorned  with  the  trappings  of  wealth;  neither 
must  it  be  saddened  by  pinching  poverty.     A  competence  there  must  be,  which, 
with  industry  and  thrift,  will  preserve  its  inmates  from  painful  anxieties. 
In  this  home,  the  husband    is  the  bread-winner,  the  wife  the  home  maker — and 
together  they  reign  over  this  little  realm.     The  children  (for  there  are  children  in  my 

ideal  home )  are  loyal  and  obedient  subjects, 
every  one;  and  it  never  occurs  to  them  to 
question  the  divine  right  of  their  king  and 
queen  to  rule. 

Order  and  system  prevail;  but  love  and 
self-sacrifice  for  love's  sake,  animates  all 
hearts  within  this  home,  and  to  be  good  and 
do  good  is  their  constant  rule  of  conduct. 
Health,  smiling  goddess,  stands  at  its  portal 
and  scatters  happiness  and  prosperity  with 
lavish  hands.  The  table  is  not  only  the  place 
where  nature's  recurring  wants  are  daily 
supplied,  but  a  school  of  manners ;  yet  there 
harmless  mirth  disports  itself  unrebuked, 
and  thought  unfettered  flows.  Books  there  are  in  abundance,  bringing  the  culture  of 
all  countries  and  all  ages  within  reach  of  this  charmed  circle.  Flowers  bloom  in  the 
window  and  smile  at  you  from  the  garden  paths  with  their  suggestions  of  beauty  and 
refinement.  Yet,  whatever  else  may  be  there,  the  guests  who  frequent  this  house  are  its 
choicest,  most  valued  ornaments. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  DISTINGUISHED  PERSONS  I  HAVE  MET  IN  TOULON. 


As  the  shadows  lengthen,  and  the  sun  of  my  life 
is  slowly  sinking  in  the  West,  memory  is  often  busy  with 
the  past — the  Far  Away  Past.  And  as  the  best  of  my 
life  belongs  to  Stark  county,  the  pictures  she  brings  are  of 
people  and  things  pertaining  to  that  locality. 

Today,  trooping  before  me,  like  pictures  on  a  mov- 
ing panorama,  come  visions  of  the  distinguished  men 
and  women  I  have  met  in  Toulon ;  and  with  them  some- 
times the  thought  that  it  is  strange  one  living  in  a  quiet 
inland  town,  for  years  remote  from  railroads,  and  when 
Illinois  was  a  much  newer  state  than  now,  should  have 
been  privileged  even  briefly  to  know,  to  clasp  the  hands 
and  look  in  the  faces  of  these  men  and  women.  To  have 
done  so,  and  to  have  listened  to  their  inspiring  words,  has 
been  a  part  of  my  education  which  I  shall  always  remem- 
ber with  pleasure. 

The  first  of  these  glimpses  in  order  of  time,  therefore  the  first  to  be  mentioned,  are 
of  Judges  Young  and  Ford,  the  latter  afterwards  governor  of  Illinois  and  author  of  a 
valuable  history  of  the  state.  I  can  not  give  the  exact  date  of  their  coming,  or  the  circum- 
stances that  called  them  to  the  town,  but  know  they  came  soon  after  the  county  seat 
was  located,  as  my  father  was  still  occupying  his  cabin,  in  which  humble  domicile  these 
honorable  gentlemen  were  entertained.  Of  the  life  history  of  Judge  Young  I  know  little. 
Perhaps  some  whose  eyes  may  fall  upon  these  lines  know  far  more.  Only  this  I  will  say : 
He  was  a  scholarly  gentleman,  a  European  traveler  whose  conversation  fascinated  my 
parents,  and  upon  the  shy  little  girl,  who  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  log  house,  made  an  im- 
pression that  the  vicissitudes  of  more  than  fifty  years  have  failed  to  obliterate.  To  that 
same  cabin  came  during  the  forties,  A.  B.  Codding  and  Owen  Lovejoy,  dauntless  cham- 
pions of  the  slave.  They  came  on  several  occasions  to  discuss  with  some  one  of  oppo- 
site opinions,  the  then  all-absorbing  topic  of  slavery  and  its  abolition.  Perhaps  this 
antagonist  was  a  Rev.  Fraser,from  Elmira,as  I  well  recollect  that  gentleman  figured  in  such 
debates.  At  a  somewhat  later  date  Owen  Lovejoy  came  during  a  congressional  canvass, 
probably  to  discuss  general  issues  then  before  the  people.  Be  that  as  it  may,  his  manly 
form,  fearless,  expressive  face,  with  rings  of  dark  hair  falling  over  a  broad  brow,  form  a 
clear  and  valued  picture  in  memory's  cabinet ;  and  it  wears  like  a  well-cut  cameo.  A 
copy  of  the  "The  Life  of  Elijah  P.  Lovejoy,"  which  he  gave  me  "For  being  such  a  good 
little  abolitionist,"  is  still  carefully  preserved,  a  souvenir  not  only  of  the  giver,  but  of  the 
stormy  time  in  which  he  lived. 

There  may  have  been  other  men  of  distinction  from  a  distance  in  Toulon  in  those 
very  early  days ;  if  so,  I  do  not  now  recall  them.  But  at  each  successive  term  of  our  circuit 
court  we  were  long  accustomed  to  see  the  lights  of  the  Peoria  bar.  And  who  that  really 
knew  these  men  can  ever  forget  them?  There  were  Merriman  and  Knowlton,  brilliant 
men  as  well  as  gifted  lawyers;  Peters  and  Powell,  both  profound  in  their  lines;  and  Man- 
ning, considered  "the  unapproachable"  by  his  friends,  his  intellectual  armory  well 
stored  with  keenest,  brightest  weapons,  which  he  used  with  the  precision  of  an  expert. 
Purple,  cold  as  a  glacier,  and  more  brilliant,  knowing  well  the  depths  and  shallows  of 


his  professions;  wielding  a  mighty  influence  whenever  he  chose  to  exert  himself.  Did 
these  men  form  an  exceptionally  able  group  in  those  pioneer  days,  or  is  it  "Distance  lends 
enchantment"? 

But  "The  years  glide  by."  The  decade  that  saw  located  the  county  seat  of  Stark 
county  had  done  its  work.  The  cabins  of  Mr.  Whitaker  and  Dr.  Hall,  wherein  the  men 
we  have  been  talking  of  usually  found  homes,  had  been  supplanted  by  more  commodious 
houses.  The  child  who  had  often  sat  timidly  in  the  corner  and  listened  to  their  words 
had  grown  to  womanhood.  The  brown  cottage  on  the  corner,  west  of  the  court  house, 
which  went  up  in  flames  and  smoke  not  long  ago,  soon  began  to  open  its  doors  to  strangers 
who  might  honor  Toulon  with  their  presence.  There  came,  as  an  honored  guest,  the 
great  agnostic,  Robt.  G.  Ingersoll,  and,  as  to  make  the  contrast  complete,  also  the  widely- 
known  evangelist,  D.  L.  Moody,  then  the  successful  supporter  of  a  mission  school  in 
Chicago. 

There  also  came  Miss  Phoebe  Couzins,  then  perhaps  at  the  zenith  of  her  power;  a 
sprightly,  versatile  woman,  with  oratorical  or  elocutionary  powers  of  no  common  order. 

This  was  before  the  blight  of 
disappointment  or  the  strain 
of  misfortune  had  embittered 
her  temper,  or  whitened  her 
luxuriant  hair.  At  this  age 
she  might  have  had  grace  suffi- 
cient to  harmonize  the  "Lady 
Managers  of  the  World's  Co- 
lumbian Exposition,"  a  feat 
she  tried  later  without  success. 
When  she  visited  Toulon  she 
was  engaged  by  the  "Young 
Men's  Debating  Society"  to 
deliver  her  lecture,  called 
"Portia  at  the  Bar."  This  was  really  a  plea  for  fuller  liberty  for  women;  "Liberty  to 
follow  any  career  they  might  choose;  to  do  anything  they  could  do  well."  As  a  souvenir 
of  that  visit,  I  have,  in  an  old  album,  this  characteristic  sentiment  written  with  her  own 
hand: 

"Men,  their  rights,  and  nothing  more; 
Woman,  hers,  and  nothing  less." 

In  the  years  just  preceding  the  civil  war  there  came  to  Toulon  two  men  who  were 
emphatically  guests  of  the  people,  or  rather,  perhaps  I  should  say,  of  their  respective 
parties.  Their  names  were  Abraham  Lincoln  and  Stephen  A.  Douglas.  At  this  time 
they  were  both  aiming  at  a  seat  in  the  United  States  senate.  They  were  to  have  met  in 
joint  debate,  but  by  some  untoward  circumstance  this  plan  was  thwarted,  and  they  spoke 
on  successive  days  from  a  platform  erected  on  the  west  side  of  the  court  house.  Among 
the  thousands  who  heard  them,  many  must  still  be  living  who  can  recall  the  events  of 
those  days.  At  that  time  the  old  "Virginia  House"  was  Republican  headquarters, 
"Hall's  Hotel"  rendering  the  same  service  for  the  hosts  of  Democracy. 

But  I  am  admonished  by  a  glance  at  my  pages  that  I  am  overreaching  the  bonds  of 
a  newspaper  article.  However,  the  editor  of  The  News  can  call  it  a  continued  story  and 
cut  it  into  as  many  parts  as  he  pleases.  I  have  tried  to  be  brief,  but  see  I  must  cut  down 
remarks  still  more. 


The  years  still  glided  by.  The  cruel  war  was  over  and  our  beloved  country  again 
happy  and  prosperous.  Literary  socities  multiplied  in  Toulon.  Perhaps  the  most  prom- 
inent among  these  was  "The  Young  Men's  Debating  Society,"  which,  for  about  ten  years, 
sustained  a  regular  lecture  course,  and  thus  gave  Toulon's  people  the  privilege  of  hearing 
many  distinguished  speakers. 

From  the  ranks  of  the  divines  they  gave  us  Prof.  Swing  and  Dr.  Thomas;  from  other 
walks  in  life,  Wendell  Philips,  Theodore  Tilton,  Schuyler  Colfax,  and  Frederick  Douglas. 

Wendell  Philips  lectured  twice.  Once  on  "The  Lost  Arts,"  once  on  "Woman, 
Temperance  and  Reform."  Tilton  told  us  of  "The  World's  Tomorrow";  Fred  Douglas 
the  pathetic  story  of  a  slave  child's  life  in  words  that  can  never  be  forgotten  by  those 
who  heard  them.  Among  humorists,  we  had  John  G.  Saxe,  Eli  Perkins,  and  last  and  best, 
Robert  Burdette. 

The  musical  world  was  well  represented,  in  the  olden  times,  by  The  Bakers,  Riley  Sis- 
ters,and  others;  in  later  days  by  the  "Swedish  Quartette,"  "Spanish  Students,"  and 
probably  other  celebrities  not  now  remembered. 

Among  ladies  distinguished  as  speakers  or  readers,  were  Mrs.  Livermore,  Anna 
Dickinson,  Eliza  Young  (wife  No.  19),  and  Laura  Dainty. 

Mrs.  Livermore  spoke  of  "Superfluous  Women,"  and  Eliza  Young  told  a  thrilling 
story  of  life  among  the  Mormons,  while  Miss  Dickinson,  in  her  inimitable  manner,  drew 
a  picture  of  the  life  and  time  of  Joan  of  Arc,  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  most  illustrious  of  the 
heroines  of  history. 

And  it  was  in  Toulon  that  I  heard  the  incomparable  reader,  Mrs.  Abby  Sage  Rich- 
ardson. And  I  think  my  eyes  have  never  since  rested  on  any  of  the  poems  she  read, 
from  the  pathos  of  the  "Witch's  Daughter"  to  the  rollicking  fun  of  the  "Ride  of  Young 
Lochinvar,"  but  her  thrilling  tone  and  exquisite  inflections  seemed  a  part  of  them.  While 
in  Toulon  she  was  the  honored  guest  of  Mrs.  Dr.  Chamberlain,  at  whose  home  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  an  hour  in  her  company  which  has  ever  since  been  one  of  my  sunny 
memories. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Boynton  Harbert,  for  a  long  time  editor  of  "The  Woman's  Kingdom  " 
in  the  Inter  Ocean,  and  widely  known  as  a  lecturer,  came  to  Toulon  at  the  request  of 
the  Woman's  Club,  and  was  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Blair,  at  whose  home  a  reception  was  held 
for  the  benefit  of  the  ladies  of  the  club  during  Mrs.  Harbert's  visit.  Her  public  address 
was  on  "The  Homes  of  Representative  Women." 

Perhaps  my  article  has  already  become  tiresome  to  my  readers,  yet  I  feel  that  these 
recollections  would  be  incomplete  without  a  passing  tribute  to  two  other  forms  that  seem 
to  call  to  me  from  the  misty  past.  In  1853  came  Alexander  Campbell,  president  of  Beth- 
any College  and  founder  of  the  "Church  of  the  Disciples"  and  one  of  the  most  famous 
polemics  of  his  day.  He  delivered  a  most  impressive  address,  the  opening  sentence  of 
which  was,  "We  meet  but  once,  between  two  eternities — an  eternity  past,  and  an  eternity 
to  come."  I  well  remember  his  appearance  and  cordial  manner.  As  I  stood  at  the  door 
of  the  church  with  my  husband  and  little  son  to  bid  him  farewell,  he  placed  his  hand  on 
Tom's  head  and  said  "Names  are  our  heraldry,  and  you  have  a  good  one,  my  boy."  He 
alluded  to  the  name  of  Shallenberger — two  at  least  of  the  Shallenberger  family  were 
members  of  the  first  little  congregation  he  organized  and  they  have  since  been  quite 
numerous  in  the  churches  of  his  faith.  This  illustrious  divine  was  guest  of  Mr.  Carson 
Berfield  during  his  visit  in  Toulon. 

The  other  personality  at  which  I  wish  to  glance  for  a  moment,  is  that  of  Bishop 
Spaulding,  Roman  Catholic  Bishop  of  Peoria.  Were  I  an  artist,  either  with  brush  or 
pen,  I  should  like  to  give  you  the  picture  that  still  lives  in  my  memory  of  this  gentleman 


as  he  stood  on  the  platform  of  the  town  hall  that  night  to  talk  to  the  people  of  his  faith 
of  the  "History  of  Christianity" — a  trite  theme,  you  will  say.  Yes,  but  in  his  hands  a 
glowing  chain  of  glorious  events  linking  the  world  of  today  with  the  Man  of  Galilee  and 
the  hills  of  Judea. 

And  to  those  who  follow  him  still  through  the  pages  of  our  leading  periodicals,  it  is 
evident  years  have  as  yet  brought  to  him  no  diminution  of  power.  These  memories 
are  priceless  to  me,  throwing,  as  they  do,  a  gleam  of  light  over  life's  evening  tide.  If  I 
have  succeeded  in  awakening  a  passing  interest  among  readers  of  The  News  I  am  satis- 
fied. E.  H.  S. 


"TO  MY  DAUGHTER." 

Written  by  DR.  THOS.  HALL  in  1860. 


I  'm  growing  old.     Nigh  thirty  years  have  fled 
Since  first  I  gazed  on  thee — my  first-born  child, 
With  all  a  father's  pride  and  joy  and  love, 
And  age  has  brought  its  fruit.     The  Muse  no  more 
Can  please  as  was  her  wont  in  earlier  days ! 
There  was  a  time,  (it  seems  but  yesterday,) 
When  rhyming  was  amusement,  and  the  praise 
Of  partial  friends  was  all  I  sought  or  cared  for. 
How  changed  the  feeling  now  !    The  poetry 
Of  life's  young  day,  with  all  its  hopes  and  fears, 


Its  promises  of  joy,  its  disappointments, 

Has,  like  a  spectre,  vanished  from  the  scene, 

And  left  the  dull  prose  of  real  life  behind. 

Yet,  think  not  life  is  dreary.    Age  has  charms, 

Has  pleasures,  which  the  young  can  not  conceive, 

And  dwelling  on  this  theme,  if  aught  could  do, 

Would  wake  my  silent  harp  to  life  again. 

It  can  not  be  !  Age  has  produced  its  fruit, 

And  though  a  much-loved  daughter  ask  the  strain, 

My  harp  can  never  wake  to  life  again. 


DO  NOT  SAY  YOU'RE  OLD,  FATHER. 


Written  in  reply  to  the  above. 


Oh,  do  not  say  you  're  old,  father ! 
Though  silvery  is  your  hair, 
I  would  not  think  that  life,  to  you, 
Now  seems  no  longer  fair. 

Say  not  your  "  Harp  must  silent  be  " 
And  "Wake  no  more  to  song," 
Your  very  life  is  melody  — 
A  poem  all  along. 

Though  well-nigh  thirty  years  have  fled 
Since  first  you  blest  your  child ; 
Though  half  a  dozen  little  ones 
For  you,  since  then,  have  smiled  ; 

Your  heart  can  not  be  old,  father, 
For  still  your  voice  will  ring 
In  laughing  glee  o'er  well-told  tales 
Or  childhood's  frolicking. 

Your  hand,  that  often  has  been  placed 
In  kindness  on  my  brow, 
It  trembles  not  as  if  old  age 
Had  chilled  its  pulses  now. 

Your  eye  still  wears  its  wonted  glow ; 
Still,  nature's  charms  can  see, 
In  her  forms  of  simplest  beauty, 
In  her  peerless  majesty. 


There  's  not  a  flower  that  careless  springs 
Unheeding  of  its  doom, 
But  you,  with  careful  step  will  turn, 
And  spare  its  fragile  bloom. 

And  still  with  subtlest  power  you  ply 
The  healer's  gentle  art 
And  science ;  still  at  your  command 
Bids  fell  disease  depart. 

By  waning  sense,  and  not  by  years, 
Old  age  should  measured  be. 
So,  you  're  as  young  as  when  you  first 
So  fondly  smiled  on  me. 

True  !  Many  years  have  past  you  fled 
Like  waves  from  distant  seas — 
A  lifetime's  sunny  memories 
May  well  atone  for  these. 

And  sunny  they  must  be  to  one 
Who  never  caused  a  tear, 
Whose  presence  is  a  talisman 
All  heavy  hearts  to  cheer. 

Then  say  no  more  you  're  old,  father  ! 
Though  silvery  is  your  hair, 
I  can  not  bear  that  life  should  seem 
To  you  no  longer  fair. 


OUR  CHILDHOOD'S  HOME. 


The  voices  that  have  mingled  here  now  speak  another  tongue, 
Or  breathe,  perchance  to  alien  ears,  the  songs  their  mother  sung. 
Sad,  strangely  sad,  in  stranger  lands,  must  sound  each  household  tone ; 
The  hearth,  the  hearth  is  desolate  !     The  bright  fire  quenched  and  gone  ! 

And  of  the  hearts  that  here  were  linked  by  long-remembered  years, 
Alas !  The  brother  knows  not  now  when  falls  the  sister's  tears  ! 
One  haply  revels  at  the  feast  while  one  may  droop  alone ; 
For  broken  is  the  household  chain,  the  bright  fire  quenched  and  gone! 

Not  so — 'tis  not  a  broken  chain ;  thy  memory  binds  them  still, 
Thou  holy  hearth  of  other  days !  Though  silent  now  and  chill. 
The  smiles,  the  tears,  the  rites,  beheld  by  thine  attesting  stone, 
Have  yet  a  living  power  to  mark  thy  children  for  thine  own. 


Among  the  pictures  hung  in  Memory's  halls,  have  you  one  of  an  old  home?  Your 
childhood's  home,  perhaps,  and  dear  to  you  by  the  most  tender  associations,  and  to  the 
recollection  of  which,  still  cling  thoughts  of  youthful  love  and  trust,  and  all  the  graces 
that  adorn  life's  morning. 

This  old  home  may  have  been  a  mansion,  or  a  low-browed  cottage,  or  but  a  cabin 
on  the  frontier.  These  differences  are  immaterial.  It  was  the  essence  of  home  life,  not 
its  adjuncts  that  sanctify  the  place  and  made  it  a  shrine.  It  was  the  presence  there  of 
parental  love,  of  filial  obedience,  of  brotherly  and  sisterly  affection,  that  hallowed  it  in 
our  heart  of  hearts,  and  made  its  record  immortal. 

In  these  respects  our  pictures  would  all  agree,  however  they  may  differ  in  outline. 
One  may  have  stood  by  the  singing  ocean,  another  by  the  placid  river,  another  among 
mountain  pines,  yet  another  on  our  western  plains ;  but  love  sanctified  them  all  alike. 

We  can  not  see  our  pictures,  or  conjecture  their  endless  variety;  but  you  each  know 
your  own,  and  at  will  can  recall  the  scene  and  people  it  as  of  yore. 

Ours  is  of  a  plain  rambling  old  house  in  a  village  of  Illinois,  with  old-fashioned 
furniture  and  belongings.  No  trappings  of  wealth  adorned  the  spot,  but  its  rooms  were 
spacious,  and  its  hearts  were  warm.  Books,  there  were,  in  abundance,  treasures  of 
thought  and  research.  Friends  often  gathered  within  its  walls,  free  from  the  conven- 
tionalities of  fashionable  life,  and  conversation  flowed  -like  choice  wine,  sometimes  rich 
and  strong,  sometimes  light  and  sparkling,  but  always  enjoyable.  And  thus  within  that 
old  home  we  learned  to  think  and  feel;  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word  to  "live" 

From  its  timeworn  volumes  I  drank  in  poetry  as  an  inspiration,  and  dwelt  upon  the 
heroism  and  genius  of  the  gifted  ones  of  earth,  until  in  spirit  I  knelt  at  their  feet  in  a 
devotion  well  nigh  idolatrous. 

And  there  that  higher  worship  dawned  upon  me,  breathing  a  spirit  of  consecration 
more  absolute  than  any  other  human  heart  may  know,  when  the  grave  questions  con- 


cerning  the  origin  and  destiny  of    man  were  all  satisfactorily  settled  by  the  book   of 
Genesis.     And  my  simple  faith  found  full  expression  in  the  words: 

"Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken  ; 
All  to  leave  and  follow  Thee." 

And  there  I  dreamed  my  "  Dream  of  Love,"  the  memory  of  which  is  sweeter  than 
the  breath  of  flowers.  And  within  those  old  walls  I  stood  a  white-robed  bride  and  gave 
myself  away  in  an  everlasting  covenant,  no  more  to  be  my  own — always  another's. 

Ah,  me!  What  changes  time  has  wrought  since  that  June  day!  Then  I  was  young 
and  many  called  me  fair;  my  father's  step  was  strong  and  elastic;  my  mother's  eye 
beamed  brightly  through  her  tears  and  her  voice  was  as  cheerful  as  a  bird  in  springtime. 
Brothers  and  sisters  hovered  round  me,  and  I  went  forth  from  that  home  all  mantled  in 
their  love. 

But  time  rolls  a  mingled  tide.  Sorrow  invaded  this  sanctuary  of  hearts,  and  Death, 
the  relentless  reaper,  claimed  the  fairest  flower  ere  yet  it  was  fully  blown.  Some  were 
transplanted  to  grace  other  households,  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  laughter  of  many 
voices,  the  paths  of  busy  feet  no  longer  resounded  through  the  dear  old  homestead. 
Still,  it  was  a  pleasant  place,  the  magnetic  center  of  many  loving  thoughts.  The  fire 
burned  brightly  through  the  winter  evenings,  and  the  "old  folks"  still  sat  in  their  easy 
chairs.  The  newspapers  and  work-basket  kept  their  accustomed  places;  the  latter  not 
so  full  as  when  the  children  were  all  at  home. 

Thus  passed  many  pleasant,  peaceful  years.  Life's  evening  tide  devoted  to  rest  and 
contemplation.  But  the  end  drew  near,  first  one  chair  was  left  vacant,  then  the  other, 
and  the  old  home  was  desolate,  indeed.  We  carried  the  dear  forms  from  haunts  they 
loved  so  long,  over  threshholds  worn  by  feet  that  should  never  tread  them  more.  One 
when  fruit  and  flowers  hung  in  rich  profusion  along  the  garden  paths;  the  other,  when 
December's  snow  wrapped  all  things  in  its  mantle  of  spotless  white;  and  embalmed  by 
tears  we  laid  them,  side  by  side,  in  the  silent  city  of  the  dead,  and  all  that  is  left  us  now 
of  that  old  home,  is  this  picture  painted  by  Memory.  Forgive  us  if  we  have  dwelt  on  it 
too  long.  E.  H.  S. 


LETTER  TO  OLD  SETTLERS'  ASSOCIATION. 

Dated  at  Imperial  Neb.,  Oct.  15,  1893. 


EDITOR  OF  THE  SENTINEL — Your  issue  of  October  nth  is  before  me,  and  is  a  paper 
of  uncommon  interest,  though  the  interest  be  mingled  with  sadness. 

The  reminiscence  of  the  Toulon  singers  of  long  ago  awakened  a  quick  response  in 
my  heart,  for  some  of  those  voices  were  inexpressibly  dear  to  me ;  and  all  are  kindly  re- 
membered. Your  correspondent  has  a  good  memory,  as  his  communication  fully  proves, 
but  mine  would  add  at  least  two  more  names  to  the  list;  those  of  Misses  Carrie  Burge 
and  Dell  Whitaker.  Both  sang  in  the  old  Congregational  choir  for  years,  and  on  various 
other  occasions  for  the  pjeople  of  Toulon  —  and  their  songs  are  still  singing  themselves 
in  the  hearts  of  exiles  all  over  these  western  plains.  "The  Beautiful  Home  of  the  Soul," 
as  Dell  sang  it,  will  ever  abide  with  me,  and  I  remember  when,  years  ago,  she  entered 
within  its  sacred  portals,  it  was  sung  above  her  grave,  Miss  Pierce,  I  think,  taking  the 
leading  part. 

In  another  column,  tidings  of  the  death  of  Mrs.  Chloe  Pratt  Buswell  in  the  93d 
year  of  her  age,  meet  my  eye.  There  is  no  cause  for  regret  that  she  has  entered  into  rest 
full  of  years  and  honors.  But  how  the  simple  announcement  sends  the  mind  careering 
back  over  the  changeful  years !  Some  of  us  now  wearing  white  hair  and  with  bowed 
forms  remember  Mrs.  Buswell  in  the  prime  of  her  womanhood;  when  little  children  played 
about  her  door,  and  when  her  cabin  home  seemed  to  her  old  neighbors  a  sort  of  palace 
in  the  wilderness,  and  she  its  ever  gracious  queen. 

Some  still  live  who  can  testify  what  a  home  that  was  —  so  full  of  cheer,  of  simple 
pleasures,  and  of  hearty  good  will  to  all  men,  white  or  black.  There,  the  neighbors  were 
sure  of  a  kindly  welcome,  the  tired  stranger  of  a  resting  place,  and  the  children  a  safe 
refuge  from  the  snares  and  ills  of  life. 

Burns,  that  true  poet  of  the  people,  sang  — 

"  From  scenes  like  these,  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 
That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad." 

And,  be  it  remembered,  other  lands  than  Scotia  owe  their  strength  and  beauty  to  just 
such  homes. 

All  honor  to  the  mothers  who,  facing  the  perils  and  privations  of  a  wilderness, 
reared  the  men  and  women  who  not  only  make  Stark  county  what  it  is  today,  but  are 
giving  tone  to  many  other  communities  nearer  the  setting  sun.  May  their  graves  long 
be  kept  green  by  a  grateful  posterity. 

A  little  farther  down  the  column  you  record  the  death  of  another  old  settler,  Mrs. 
Mary  Thomas.  As  a  resident  of  Stark  county,  she  antedates  us  all — 1836  is  a  long  time 
ago.  I  remember  this  lady  since  1838.  I  knew  her  as  a  bride,  as  a  mother,  as  a  widow 
sorrowing  above  the  graves  of  an  entire  family.  And  as  I  sit  down  and  muse  on  all  I 
knew  of  her,  the  thought  uppermost  in  my  mind  is  symmetry — beautiful  symmetry — phys- 
icaly,  mentally  and  morally. 

She  was  indeed  "A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned,"  and  as  such  will  live  in  the  mem- 
ories of  hundreds  outside  of  the  circle  still  nearer  to  her  by  the  ties  of  blood.  I  trust 
Sentinel  readers  will  forgive  me  if  any  think  I  pronounce  to  warm  a  eulogy  on  these  dear 
departed  friends  of  other  days. 

My  defense  is,  I  owe  them  so  much,  not  only  for  brightening  my  own  childhood  and 
youth,  but  for  kindly  offices,  so  lovingly  rendered  to  my  parents  during  the  early  settle- 
ment of  Stark  county.  And  in  return,  I  can  give  them  only  the  tribute  of  an  exile's 
tears.  E.  H.  S. 


These  lines  were  addressed  by  the  author  to  an  old  pestle  and  mortar  brought  by 
her  father,  Dr.  Thomas  Hall,  from  England,  in  1837.  It  was  conspicuous  amidst  the 
scant  furnishings  of  the  Osceola  cabin,  and  was  one  of  the  treasures  accompanying  the 
family  upon  their  removal  to  Toulon,  in  1842. 

Few  were  the  early  settlers  of  Stark  county  who  did  not  learn  to  battle  disease 
and  pain  with  the  draughts  and  lotions  compounded  in  this  old  vessel. 

It  is  now  in  the  possession  of  a  Dr.  Hall  of  the  third  generation. 


MY  FATHER'S  OLD  PESTLE  AND  MORTAR. 


What  memories  awake  at  thy  bidding, 
Thou  precious  old  pestle  and  mortar  ! 
Of  the  days  and  people  long  fled ! 
Of  my  childhood's  home  over  the  water  ! 

For  thou  wast  our  faithful  companion, 
In  perils  by  land  and  by  sea, 
When  the  medicine  chest  in  the  corner 
Contained  all  our  treasures  and  thee. 

And  then  the  log  house  "  in  the  timber  " 
Floats  back  on  my  memory  so  clear; 
With  its  rows  of  rude  shelves  and  bright  bottles, 
And  the  mortar  and  pestle  were  there  — 

And  my  father,  so  strong  then  for  duty, 
So  patient,  all  hardships  to  stand, 
Would  sit  in  the  firelight  at  evening 
And  ply  thee  with  vigorous  hand. 

Or,  the  office  door  opened  so  briskly, 

As  he  glanced  out  in  search  of  his  daughter, 

Commanding,  in  tones  so  familiar, 

"  Eliza,  come  wash  me  this  mortar ! " 


Ah !   The  years  do  fly  swiftly,  I  'm  thinking, 
And  changes  come  swift  as  the  years, 
My  father  and  I  show  their  traces, 
But  none  on  the  mortar  appear. 

I  am  led  to  conclude  it  is  heartless  ; 
That  its  bosom  is  harder  than  stone, 
Or  on  its  old  face  would  be  written 
Some  trace  of  the  life  it  has  known. 

For  that  of  its  master  grew  wrinkled 
And  furrowed  by  many  a  line  ; 
But  dearer  for  each  added  record 
Till  death  made  the  impress  divine. 

The  faith  of  the  red  man  would  gather 
The  weapons  of  chase  and  of  war 
And  lay  them  beside  the  dead  warrior 
To  take  to  the  land  that 's  afar. 

So  I,  in  some  fanciful  moments, 

As  close  to  yon  hillocks  I  stand, 

Would  fain  bring  the  books  and  the  bottles : 

And  the  mortar  put  nearest  his  hand. 


LETTER  TO  OLD  SETTLERS'  ASSOCIATION. 

Dated  at  Imperial,  Neb.,  January  25, 1895. 


EDITOR  OF  THE  SENTINEL — It  is  some  time  since  I  read  in  your  paper  (for  the  Sen- 
tinel  is  a  weekly  visitant  in  our  home)  that  you  would  like  some  brief  notes  for  publica- 
tion from  all  old  settlers  of  what  is  now  known  as  Stark  county,  Illinois.  A  quiet  hour 
in  which  to  collect  my  thoughts  and  put  them  on  paper  has  seemed  beyond  my  reach,  or 
you  would  have  heard  from  me  sooner.  For,  feeling  deeply  interested  in  these  simple 
narratives  of  the  old  folks,  I  am  glad  to  add  my  mite  to  "keep  the  ball  rolling"  until  all 
who  survive  are  heard  from.  And  the  list  will  not  be  a  long  one,  for  the  vast  majority 
of  those  who  were  really  pioneers — they  who  blazed  the  path  through  the  wilderness, 
who  gave  character  and  impetus  to  your  first  enterprises  — have  passed  away.  They  are 
sleeping  among  your  groves  and  prairies,  beneath  the  sods  that,  perchance,  in  the  years 


long  past,  their  own  plows  first  turned  over  to  the  sunlight.     The  Stern  Reaper  did  not 
wait  for  the  laying  out  of  cemeteries  before  he  began  his  work.     How  often  it  was  true 

of  the  pioneer — 

"  Where  his  own  plow  had  broke  the  soil 

His  narrow  grave  was  made; 
And,  mid  the  trophies  of  his  toil, 
The  manly  sleeper  laid." 

Those  of  us  whose  names  will  fill  the  "Old  Settlers'  Corner"  were  mostly  very  young 
settlers  when  we  found  a  home  in  the  county  of  which  we  are  talking.  My  father  arrived 
there  July  6,  1837;  so  you  see  I  antedate  Mr.  Oliver  White  by  a  year  as  to  residence,  but 
I  think  not  as  to  birth.  I  remember  the  coming  of  his  father's  family  very  distinctly,  and 
we  were  both  members  of  the  school  taught  in  Osceola  Grove  by  Miss  Marsh,  afterwards 
Mrs.  Robert  Hall.  I  think  this  must  have  been  the  summer  of  '39.  However,  he  says 
his  time  in  those  days  was  mostly  occupied  in  making  mud  pies,  and  I  think  I  was 
employed  in  much  the  same  manner;  and  while  I  humbly  defer  to  Mr.  White  as  to  all  of 
the  accomplishments  of  our  riper  years,  I  claim  to  have  been  his  equal  in  manipulating 
mud,  or,  as  I  would  rather  call  it,  clay. 

My  father's  first  home  in  Illinois  was  in  Osceola  Grove,  on  a  piece  of  ground  now 
owned  by  my  cousin,  Mr.  George  Hall.  We  had  a  good  log  cabin,  and  in  addition,  an 
outside  cellar,  or  cave.  This  was  walled  up  by  logs  and  roofed  over  by  substantial  tim- 
bers, but  what  was  of  more  consequence  than  all  the  rest  to  me,  it  was  thickly  covered 
by  good  honest  yellow  clay;  and  oh,  what  possibilities  that  clay  contained  for  the  deft 
little  hands  that  so  industriously  worked  in  it  all  the  pleasant  summer  days!  Not  only 
my  own,  but  several  other  pairs,  belonging  to  my  younger  sisters  and  a  brother.  With  us 
it  must  have  been  "The  Age  of  Crude  Pottery,"  for  wondrous  were  the  forms  we  wrought 
out  of  the  plastic  material.  Nothing  artistic — that  idea  had  not  yet  dawned  upon  us — 
but  homely  common  things  we  fashioned  in  abundance — boxes  of  all  shapes  and  sizes, 
to  hold  the  seeds  we  gathered,  or  other  treasures  we  might  have;  drinking-cups  from 
which  we  could  water  our  chickens,  for  sometimes  our  mother  would  kindly  allow  us  to 
burn  our  wares  in  the  huge  fire-place  under  heaps  of  glowing  embers,  and  then  they 
became  veritable  bricks  and  would  hold  water  without  injury.  A  haystack  not  far  off, 
where  a  hay-knife  was  used,  showing  the  smooth  ends  of  various-shaped  weeds,  furnished 
us  endless  resources  in  the  way  of  decoration. 

Will  these  tales  of  child  life  in  the  home  of  the  pioneer  strike  your  readers  as  puerile  ? 
I  hope  not.  As  many  express  an  interest  in  all  that  pertains  to  those  early  days,  the  chil- 
dren may  claim  their  share.  We  had  none  of  the  expensive  toys  or  new  books  that 
delight  the  children  of  today,  but  we  lived  close  to  the  great  heart  of  nature ;  she  gave  us 
of  her  abundance,  and  we  were  content.  Gorgeous  flowers  and  autumn  leaves,  each  in 
their  season,  gratified  our  love  of  color  and  of  beauty  that  seems  inate  in  every  human 
heart.  The  rushing  streams  in  summer,  the  smooth  ice  in  winter,  supplied  unlimited 
amusement;  while  gathering  the  fruits  and  nuts  with  which  the  woods  abounded  culti- 
vated our  industrious  and  provident  habits.  And  we  had  the  squirrels  for  teachers  if  we 
needed  any. 

3ut  my  paper  is  outgrowing  all  bounds.  I  will  add  only  a  few  remarks,  called  out 
by  letters  heretofore  published  in  this  corner. 

That  from  Mr.  D.  A.  Wilber  called  up  many  pleasant  memories.  His  childhood's 
home  in  Lafayette,  of  which  his  honored  mother  was  the  good  genius,  rose  clearly  to 
view,  and  as  a  child  I  have  listened  to  his  father's  recital  of  that  fierce  battle  with  a  prairie 
fire;  and  when  my  father  was  ready  to  exchange  his  cabin  for  a  frame  house,  Mr.  Wilber 
was  the  builder.  How  well  I  recall  his  merry  laugh,  the  clear  ringing  tones  of  his  voice, 


as  he  whistled  or  sang  over  his  work!  I  remember,  too,  his  tragic  death;  was  present  at 
the  trial  of  his  assassin. 

One  of  your  lady  correspondents  writes  of  standing  at  the  grave  of  the  first  Mrs. 
Stephen  Eastman,  whose  grave  was  the  first  one  dug  in  your  now  populous  city  of  the 
dead.  I,  too,  stood  by  that  grave  and  shed  heartfelt  tears,  for  Mrs.  Eastman  had  been 
my  teacher  and  my  friend. 

But  I  must  not  allow  my  pen  to  lead  me  on.  These  old  settlers'  letters,  often  even 
the  names  and  dates,  are  souvenirs  of  the  past  to  me  which  have  power  to  waken  hosts 
of  memories.  With  kindly  greetings  to  all  these  old  friends  of  long  ago,  and  hoping  to 
hear  from  more  of  them,  I  remain  faithfully  yours,  £LIZA  HALL  SHALLENBERGER. 


THE  SYMBOL  FLOWER. 


There  blooms,  't  is  said,  a  wondrous  flower, 
In  some  far  nook,  or  forest  bower, 
With  leaves  of  amaranthine  green, 
While  golden  tendrils  clasp  between. 

Its  pearly  chalice,  gemmed  with  dew, 
Turns  earthward ;  courts  not  mortal  view, 
Yet  clings  with  instinct,  pure  and  sweet, 
To  the  strong  boughs  its  tendrils  meet. 

Mimosa  like,  its  fibres  stirred 
By  a  rude  breath  or  careless  word, 
Shrink  withered  back,  and  trust  no  more 
The  stay  so  loved  in  days  before. 

Replace  you  may,  with  studied  care, 
Each  withered  leaf  and  floweret  fair, 
Reviving  showers  will  fall  in  vain. 
Sunshine  but  makes  the  ruin  plain. 
No  life  nor  beauty  can  they  bring 
Where  naught  but  blighted  clusters  swing. 

But  for  his  sake  whose  manly  heart, 
Scorns  to  inflict  a  needless  smart ; 
Who  makes  all  fragile  things  his  care, 
His  strength  the  panoply  they  wear. 

For  souls  like  his  these  petals  breathe 
Such  fragrance  as  ambrosia  gives. 
Pure  as  the  love  of  angels,  sweet 
As  whispered  vows  when  lovers  meet. 
Constant  as  heaven's  unchanging  blue, 
Ever  the  same,  yet  ever  new. 


Woman's  First  Trust  they  call  the  flower, 
And  you,  who  lightly  prize  the  dower, 
Would  you  could  know  the  inward  blight, 
The  darkness  of  unending  night, 
That  withering  creeps  o'er  flower  and  stem 
When  the  loved  stay  proves  false  to  them  ' 

Oh,  man  !  If  selfish  be  thy  heart, 
Cherish  this  trust ;  no  ills  can  part 
Its  tendrils  fond  that  round  thee  grasp 
Thy  hand  alone  can  loose  the  clasp. 

Though  tempests  sweep  thy  prostrate  form, 
'T  will  cling  the  closer  for  the  storm  ; 
Though  lightnings  scathe  thee,  fresh  and  free 
Its  fadeless  wreaths  shall  cover  thee 
Like  flowers  that  blossom  o'er  a  tomb, 
Or  vines  that  clothe  the  stones  with  bloom. 

But  if,  with  rude  unhallowed  hands, 
You  once  unclasp  the  golden  bands, 
Lay  them  dishonored  in  the  dust  — 
No  more  the  faithless  prop  they  '11  trust. 

A  blighted  ruin  they  may  swing 

From  boughs  where  once  they  loved  to  cling. 

Cherished  in  vain  if  crushed  before  ! 

The  pearly  chalice  opes  no  more  ! 

E.  H.  S. 


LETTER  TO  OLD  SETTLERS'  ASSOCIATION. 

Dated  at  Loveland,  Colo.,  Aug.  15, 1897. 


DR.  W.  T.  HALL: 

Dear  Brother  and  President  of  the  Stark  County  Old  Settlers'  Association — I  would  it 
were  in  my  power  to  write  a  few  lines  of  interest  for  those  who  will  gather  on  Old  Set- 
tlers' Day.  My  heart  goes  out  to  the  remnant  of  the  "Old  Guard  "  left  on  duty.  I  was 
with  you  at  the  organization  of  the  society  twenty  years  ago,  and  I  recall  that  at  our  first 
banquet,  at  the  old  Stockner  Hotel,  we  were  placed  at  the  table  according  to  the  time  of 
our  settlement.  From  Osceola  came  the  Buswells,  the  Parks,  the  Halls,  and  the  Wins- 
lows.  1835  and  '36  had  several  representatives,  while  1837  summoned  a  goodly  group. 
Those  years  would  make  a  light  showing  now. 

But  of  what  shall  I  write  to  those  that  remain  ?  To  borrow  a  miner's  phrase,  I  feel 
that  I  have  about  "worked  out  the  vein"  of  reminiscence;  and  it  is  so  long  since  I  left 
Stark  county  that  were  it  my  privilege  to  meet  with  you  in  1897  I  would,  to  a  great  ex- 
tent, wander  through  the  crowd  unknowing  and  unknown. 

Those  who  made  life  bright  for  me  in  bygone  days  have,  with  a  few  exceptions 
"  Entered  the  low  green  tent  whose  curtains  never  outward  swing."  Are  these  reflections 
too  sombre  for  the  occasion  ?  Then  fold  this  letter  and  lay  it  on  the  table  unread,  for 
such  will  arise  whenever  my  memory  treads  the  green  lanes  of  the  past.  And  yet,  I  love 
them  well.  Along  their  shadowy  lines  grew  the  fairest  flowers  of  life,  such  as  perhaps 
blossom  but  once  for  any  of  us.  And  they  lead  me  straight  back  to  the  log  cabin  of  my 
honored  father,  who,  with  his  brothers,  planted  deep  the  name  of  Hall  in  the  early  history 
of  the  county.  And  I  am  glad  to  think  that  such  of  their  descendants  as  still  linger 
among  you  are  proving  themselves  worthy  of  their  lineage.  In  1837  my  home  was  in 
Osceola  Grove.  This  was  before  Stark  county  won  its  name.  There,  by  the  glowing 
firelight,  I  heard  my  father  read  from  English  newspapers  of  the  coronation  of  the  youth- 
ful Queen  Victoria.  Then,  in  Toulon  was  my  early  married  home,  the  birthplace  of  my 
children,  and  the  burial-place  of  my  kindred.  And  how  these  ties  of  birth  and  burial 
bind  our  hearts  to  a  locality  as  with  bands  of  steel!  In  imagination  the  old  brown  house 
on  the  corner  rises  from  its  ashes,  and  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  there.  For  this  and 
many  other  reasons  I  love  Stark  county  and  its  pioneers ;  and  wherever  my  lot  may  be 
cast,  true  as  the  needle  to  the  pole,  my  heart  still  turns  to  her. 

"  There  are  no  friends  like  the  old  friends, 

Who  have  known  our  morning  days, 
No  greeting  like  their  welcome, 
No  plaudit  like  their  praise." 

To  all  old  settlers  who  still  hold  me  in  remembrance,  here,  from  the  base  of  the 
great  Rockies,  I  waft  a  kindly  greeting,  and  heartily  wish,  that  not  only  this  day,  but  all 
their  days  may  be  happy  and  successful.  Faithfully  yours, 

ELIZA  HALL  SHALLENBERGER. 


EARLY  FLOWERS. 


Welcome  once  more !    Ye  radiant  gems  of  spring ! 
Clustering  like  jewels  in  her  signet  ring. 
Ye  come!    We  wondering  hail  the  sign, 
And  bow  before  a  presence  so  divine. 

No  Indian  Queen,  in  gorgeous  gems  arrayed, 
Ever  such  varied  loveliness  displayed. 
Emerald  and  sapphire  yield  the  meed  of  power 
To  you,  fair  nurslings  of  the  sun  and  shower. 

O'er  some  of  us,  on  noiseless  pinions  fleet, 
Long  years  have  swept,  since  first  with  eager  feet, 
We  searched  for  you  through  many  a  hidden  nook, 
Up  sunny  hillside,  or  by  running  brook. 

And  time  has  left  its  seal  on  cheek  and  brow. 
Our  hearts  seem  changed  to  match,  we  wot  not  how; 
But  you,  bright  flowers,  are  all  unchanged  and  sweet 
As  when  you  sprung  our  earliest  steps  to  greet. 

By  paths,  since  overgrown,  perchance  we  strayed ; 
Of  other  blossoms  our  first  wreaths  were  made ; 
Daisies  and  cowslips — that  we  know  not  here — 
Still  bloom  in  memory's  garlands,  doubly  dear. 

Warm  hands,  which  then  we  prest,  have  since  grown 

cold, 

Or  faces  that  we  love,  grown  strangely  old ; 
But  bright  with  hope  and  promise,  flowers  still  bloom 
And  gladden  with  their  presence,  e'en  the  tomb. 

And  well  we  love  these  children  of  the  West, 
Anemone  and  buttercup  and  violet  best. 
Yes !  Some  strange  apathy  our  souls  must  seize 
Ere  we  forget  to  watch  and  wait  for  these. 

What  visions  they  recall  of  vanished  hours ! 
When,  truly,  life's  bright  stream  ran  over  flowers. 
What  hopes  they  whisper  for  the  coming  year 
If  we  but  list  their  voice  and  heed  their  cheer! 

Then  let  young  children  go  with  dimpled  hands, 
Crowd  them  in  groups,  or  twine  in  fragrant  bands. 
The  flower's  sweet  breath,  fit  lessons  will  impart 
To  be  transcribed  on  childhood's  gentle  heart. 

Thus  may  our  darlings  garner  up  a  store 
Of  sunny  memories,  as  we  did  of  yore. 
In  distant  lands  they  may  recall  these  hours, 
Painted  and  sweetened  by  these  early  flowers. 

—  Toulon,  April  jot h,  1865. 


pa     ^=^ 


-^  IT 


And   IKc   r\&mc     o/  JKai     I  §10    is 

^VD          *    V>  ^   A  ^          ^  ^ 

ir\g    Lofi     -Ao, 


